down into another window well. She could die. She might die anyway.
I pushed through the aching and throbbing, running with one leg and trying not to buckle on the other. As I turned the corner I saw her disappear around the back. That was good—she was getting closer to the cafeteria doors. Maybe they’d still be open.
“Jane, wait!”
When I saw her again she was almost in front of the cafeteria, which was now dark. The doors were closed.
The moon was on this side of the building, giving me a little light. Jane was moving awkwardly; I could see now that both her legs were probably injured, not just one. Given my pain, I didn’t know how she was still standing.
I also noticed for the first time that my left hand—the one that wasn’t working—was black with dried blood.
Jane was moving in spurts now, slowing, stopping, taking a few sudden steps, over and over. I was gaining on her.
She ignored the cafeteria and was now limping past the incinerator. I was twenty steps behind her. I called again, but it was like she couldn’t hear me.
Dylan must have hit her in the head. She had a concussion—or worse. I wasn’t going to spend another day in this school—I’d get sent to detention for killing Dylan. And Laura. And I didn’t care.
Jane turned after the incinerator. I followed.
She was heading for the door. The door that no one could open.
I reached her and grabbed her arm, but she shook me off.
“Jane, what are you doing?” I pleaded. “You need to lie down.”
Ignoring me, she stepped in front of the door.
Buzz. Click.
Her hand, crippled and stained with blood, took the knob and opened it. I grabbed the door behind her, not letting it shut.
She was limping down a cement-walled hallway, like the others in the basement, except that this place smelled cleaner-like ammonia. A dim blue bulb hung from the ceiling, and as Jane passed beneath it her skin looked pale and dead.
The hall opened into a long, narrow room that reminded me of an old hospital. There were cupboards along one wall and empty shelves above them. On the right side was a row of steel floor-to-ceiling cabinets, and on the left was a metal table and a computer.
I had my hand on Jane’s waist, following her helplessly as she walked to the steel table. I tried to help as she climbed up onto it, but she ignored me. Worse than ignored me—she moved as though I wasn’t there at all.
My face was wet, but I didn’t know whether it was tears or blood. Probably both.
“Jane,” I whispered. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
She sat on the table, her legs stretched in front of her. I noticed a huge black bulge in her right leg just above the knee. Her bone was broken, but she’d been walking on it. Her injured hand was tugging at her ear, and her eyes stared blankly ahead.
I held her hand, but she didn’t acknowledge it.
“What is wrong with you?” I shouted. “I’m trying to help!”
She tugged at her ear again, and this time it came off in her hand. There were lights behind it, and metal.
Where her skull should be. Metal and lights.
Jane pulled a cable from the computer and plugged it into her head.
I stumbled backward.
No. No, no, no.
The computer lit up and lines of text began appearing one at a time on the screen. EMERGENCY DAMAGE REPORT AUTO RETRIEVE MODE MODEL: JANE 117C SEARCHING FOR DAMAGE… DAMAGE CODES: WA 24584 MG 58348 OC 32111…
The numbers went on and on. Dozens, then hundreds.
I stared at her.
“Jane.” The word was barely audible.
Her lips didn’t move, but she spoke. It wasn’t her voice.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Chapter Sixteen
I ran.
I scrambled back down the hallway, struggling to balance as my hip kept trying to give way. I was terrified that the door wouldn’t unlock for me, but the knob turned without a noise. I threw it open and charged outside, finally collapsing on the grass by the track.
I curled into a ball, the pain of my chest and leg and arm all overwhelming now. But worse was my heart, which felt like it had been ripped from my body and run through a shredder.
Model: Jane 117C
Jane had a model number. She was a… I had no idea.
An android? A robot? I thought I was going to throw up.
No. She couldn’t be a robot. Jane had feelings and she had ideas and she had a personality.
I had kissed her. She had kissed me.
I tried to picture her, the Jane from before—happy, beautiful, alive Jane. But all I could see was her hobbling down the blue hallway, tearing off her ear, plugging into the computer.
There were no more lights on in the building. The school was silent, and no one knew. No one knew, and how was I going to tell them? How could I explain something that I didn’t understand? I needed to get them in that door and show them, but I couldn’t imagine going back in there. I couldn’t see her again, not like that.
She was a computer program. I’d been falling in love with a computer program. When she smiled it was because some algorithm had commanded her to. When she kissed me it was because a complex chain of ones and zeros made her do it. She wasn’t real, and she never had been.
But this was impossible. Computers couldn’t think, and they couldn’t act the way Jane acted. Machines couldn’t look like Jane looked. Her skin felt real. There was life in her eyes.
I closed my eyes as a sharp wave of pain wracked my chest. I needed a doctor, but the infirmary was run by Dylan. And even if he hadn’t been the one who’d beaten me, what could he do? He was a teenager, just like me.
Or was he?
Jane had a model number. And her number was 117C. Were there 116 others? There weren’t even that many students in the school. But with the way people came and went, maybe there had been 116. Maybe the others died, like Jane.
Jane was dead.
No—she was never alive.
Was everyone a robot but me? Maybe they were watching me, testing me. How will Benson Fisher respond if he’s in a fight? Will he try to escape? Will he make friends? Will he fall in love?
Breathing hurt. Lying on the ground hurt, but I couldn’t do anything else.
Jane could have been the only one. She’d been in the school longer than anyone else. Maybe her stories about the fifteen others who had disappeared weren’t true. She was the first, and she was here to watch everyone else.
I suddenly realized that everything else must have been a lie, too. She wasn’t from Baltimore. She hadn’t been homeless. She didn’t want to be a doctor. Her freckles were paint, her hair was dyed.
I yelled, a visceral angry cry. Jane had tried to make me think that I could survive in this place, that I
